


in search of our lost time

by alwaysbuddy



Series: some nebulous universe called domesticity [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bathtub Sex, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nesting, Romantic Fluff, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 21:29:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9787745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysbuddy/pseuds/alwaysbuddy
Summary: Jack rests a hand lightly on the porcelain, skimming forward to catch one of Kent’s wrists, where it’s dangling off the edge of the tub. Kent immediately turns his hand over, and wraps two fingers around Jack’s own wrist loosely, tugging in a way that says,why aren’t you in here with me yet, huh?





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second fill for the [**Check Please! Kink Bingo**](https://checkpleasekinkbingo.tumblr.com/) fanworks challenge! It's not the follow-up to my previous square that I was going to write, because Valentine's Day happened and I wanted it to coincide with one of my fills, so this got written instead. Except now it's two days late, and I've sort of ended up subverting the trope? Or double subverting it?
> 
> I have no idea, but hey. Bathtub sex is just as hot as shower sex. Anyway. At least I'm on my second square now! 
> 
> For the prompt/square: **'shower sex'** | [L1 | R3](http://i.imgur.com/qXcjSI1.jpg)
> 
>  **Also, note:** all my Jack/Parse fills are going to be set in this nebulous alternate reality where they've got their shit together and have rediscovered love with each other. Because I'm a huge fuckin' sap, and I love Kent Parson. _#kentparsonprotectionsquad_

  
  
  


He shows up on Jack’s doorstep just after half past noon. 

Kent looks exhausted. Bag slung over a slumped shoulder, silver aviators perched high on his nose to hide the dark circles, hair swept back by the wind that’s been rolling steadily in this week. The smile that’s scrawled lazily across his face only does so much to draw attention away from the way his voice is rough around the edges, when he says, simply, “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Jack holds the door open for him, and Kent trundles through, dropping his bag in its usual place on the chair next to the umbrella stand. “I thought your flight was going to get in at four?”

“I managed to reschedule a media thing for after the break, so I got off earlier.” Kent disappears into the living room, voice trailing off. “Fuck, I’m so glad we get a week off now.” There’s a clatter, probably sunglasses landing haphazardly on the coffee table, a thump, and a loud sigh.

Jack peers into the living room to see Kent lying on the couch, face buried in the cushions, limbs hanging off the edge. “Lie down properly,” Jack says. “You’ll suffocate and then I won’t have anyone to make dinner.”

“I see where your priorities lie,” Kent says, or probably means to say, the words coming out completely muffled.

Jack shakes his head, and walks over to curl his fingers into the back of Kent’s shirt, tugging him up like a puppy by the scruff of the neck. “Kent,” he says, and Kent does sit up at that, but he presses his cheek against Jack’s arm, eyes half-shut, and Jack says, softer, “come on. Bath and a nap.”

Kent is silent, but he nods. Jack’s hand moves upwards from where it had been resting on Kent’s shirt collar, and he thumbs soothing circles into the nape of Kent’s neck, watching the way the tension seeps out of his back. Jack’s tired too, but his exhaustion differs from Kent’s, doesn’t run bone-deep the way it does for Kent, who’s had a rough season so far, who’s been averaging close to twenty-eight minutes on ice for the past ten games, who’s been under immense scrutiny to perform, and it’s almost tangible, the ache that Kent’s been carrying around for the good part of a few months. 

And Kent’s last game, Aces against the Wild, had been a pretty physical one—the Aces ended up with a narrow one-goal win, almost heading into OT if it hadn’t been for a lucky one-timer from one of their defencemen. Kent had Skyped him that night from his hotel room, bruises apparent even in the dim back-light of the bedside lamp.

He’d wanted to be there so badly. He’d wanted to reach through the screen, stroke his fingers over the discolouration on Kent’s chin, and wish it away, make Kent smile a little wider, a little brighter. Jack’s still not great at communicating the way he feels, sometimes, but Kent had seen it in his face that night, by the way his own expression had turned fond, by the way he’d said, voice crackling over the tinny phone speaker, “A day, and I’ll be there.”

“Good,” Jack remembers saying, just as quietly. “That’s good, Kenny.”

Suddenly, _fiercely,_ Jack is very glad for the timing of the Aces’ mandated break, and the fact that he’s got a string of home games this entire week.

“Let’s go,” Jack murmurs, and Kent acquiesces, letting Jack tug him up and lead them both away.

They’ve just stepped into the bedroom, when Kent puts a hand in the door, and says, “Hey, Zimms. Do you even lift?”

Jack blinks, frowns, and starts, “What—”

“Because you lift my heart, bro,” Kent finishes, and Jack has to take a long second to process the words, because— _huh?_ Kent just cackles, and ducks past Jack to start undressing. He pulls off one sock, then the other, and then says, “Hey, y’know what else? I wanna live in your socks.”

“What,” Jack repeats flatly, but he then remembers what day it is, and he’s not even the slightest bit surprised now.

“So I can be with you every step of the way.”

“Oh god,” Jack says, his hand already pressed to his face, attempting to cover his shame at having a boyfriend who still deigns to crack awful pick-up lines even when he’s too tired to get off the sofa to go sleep on an actual mattress. “Kent. Shut up.”

“Are you the square root of negative one? Because you’re unreal.”

“Stop.”

“C’mon, it’s Valentine’s Day,” Kent laughs, tossing his shirt aside, and walking back over to Jack, who’s still standing in the doorway. He slings his arms around Jack’s neck, and smiles, eyes still sleepy, but much more alive than they had been, just minutes ago. 

(They’re hazel-green under the gaze of the watchful sun, peeking through the curtains. Different from the icy blue they look under the glare of stadium lights, when they meet on the ice. Less intense than the dark browns they sometimes slide into, when they’re alone in the dark of the night. Warmer than the soft purples they sometimes strangely seem to be, when Kent turns his face up to streetlights, or diner overheads. Just hazel-green. Jack’s favourite shade of his eyes.)

“You’re the one letting me stay for the week. It’s my moral duty to wine you and dine you and call you fine on this special day. Though, we might have to get to the wining and dining part a lot later.” He gets on his tip-toes to press a kiss to the corner of Jack’s mouth, sweet and fleeting. “Happy Valentine’s Day. M’sorry I’m not so great at doing this kinda thing. Promise I’ll make it up to you tonight.”

Jack kisses him in response, resting his hands on the wonderfully warm, bare skin of Kent’s waist, tucking his thumbs into the waistband of Kent’s underwear. “Don’t be sorry. You’re here. That’s good enough for me.” He catches Kent’s lips again, running a hand up his back, feeling the ripple of muscle when Kent arches a little into the kiss, tangling his fingers into Jack’s hair.

“It’s getting long again,” Kent murmurs, fingers toying with a lick of hair that curls under his ear. “Not getting it cut?”

“Later,” Jack says, “you like it long, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Kent says, voice slipping into that fond thing it does, once more. “Yeah, I do.”

The thing Jack likes about Kent coming here instead of him going to Vegas is that his Providence house is much homier than Kent’s. And it’s because of Kent—over time, he’s somehow moved so much of his stuff into Jack’s place that he barely needs to bring anything with him when he comes over—case in point, the single duffel he’d showed up with today.

But it’s not just Kent’s flannel shirts, or his awful Team USA boxers, or a couple of his million and one snapbacks found in a dresser drawer. It’s the photo frames that have been steadily filling up mantels and walls, of friends, of family, of them. It’s the spare hockey sticks that stand next to Jack’s, in his equipment closet. It’s his Top Gear magazines right next to Jack’s fishing subscriptions on one of the coffee table rungs, the ear-marked and Post-It-Note-covered cat calendar stuck to the fridge, the two Roombas he’d bought just so he could tape kitchen knives to them and make them duel.

(“You are _not,”_ Jack had said, but Kent had already duct-taped the first knife on the poor thing by the time Jack realised what he was about to do. After, Jack had just sighed, before going to get the balloons from the kitchen table.)

Kent’s apartment in Vegas is bare-bones, minimalist, and small. Still, even after all this time. Less of a home, and more of a place to pass through, in between games and media appearances and trips to wherever the wind takes them. 

So, Jack’s house, it was. Their home, it is.

And, the bonus? 

Jack has a bathtub big enough for two.

It doesn’t take long for the water to fill up to a reasonable level. The tap’s still running when Kent drops down into the tub, letting out the longest, most satisfied sound when his toes dip into warm water. He stretches out one leg, and then the other, and slides back down against the side of the tub, until his chin is just above the surface of the still-rising water. His eyes fall shut.

Jack rests a hand lightly on the porcelain, skimming forward to catch one of Kent’s wrists, where it’s dangling off the edge of the tub. Kent immediately turns his hand over, and wraps two fingers around Jack’s own wrist loosely, tugging in a way that says, _why aren’t you in here with me yet, huh?_

Their hands part. Kent watches silently while Jack strips off his thin t-shirt and sweatpants, obviously appreciating the view, if his grin is anything to go by. Jack steps carefully into the tub and sits, shifting them around until he’s up behind Kent, knees bracketing Kent’s body loosely as the water ebbs around them. He tucks his feet around Kent’s, and smiles when Kent folds his fingers over Jack’s ankle, wanting Jack to get closer.

There’s more than enough space for them both to lie comfortably in here, but Jack doesn’t want the space, doesn’t need it. He tugs Kent back, until his shoulders are flush against Jack’s chest, and Kent rest his head along the curve of Jack’s neck, letting out a soft exhalation, almost swallowed by the sound of the still-rushing water. A few more minutes, and then Jack’s reaching out to turn the tap off with his toes, too comfortable to get up.

Jack idly threads his fingers through Kent’s hair with one hand, running his nails gently over his scalp, pushing his straw-coloured hair off his forehead, behind his ears. Kent hums, and leans into his touch, baring his neck just a little. Jack takes the chance to press his lips to the side of Kent’s jaw, just where the bruise of a few days ago is starting to heal up, blue-black fading into a paler green, still much too stand-out against Kent’s pale skin.

He kisses the skin there again, and then licks the bruise over lightly, before gently closing his lips over it and sucking tenderly, briefly. Kent’s whole body relaxes, even more than it already has. Kent likes it when Jack presses into his surface hurts, likes it when Jack kisses over the existing marks and makes them his own. 

“Y’know,” Kent murmurs, the first words either of them have spoken since they got in, “when you said ‘bath’ earlier, I figured we were gonna fuck in the shower, not actually take a bath.” He tangles their ankles together, a slow, fluid motion in the water. “But I like this a lot more.”

“Mm,” Jack says, pressing another kiss to the lovely length of Kent’s neck, “we could, still.”

“Yeah?” Kent turns his head, wordlessly asking for a proper kiss, and Jack obliges. The sound of their lips is slick, turning into a wet, sharp smack that resonates against the tiles when they pull away. Kent’s mouth is a quickly-darkening pink, and Jack wants to bite into the plush bow of his lower lip, run his teeth along it until it becomes flushed and red, the way it does when Kent chews nervously on his lip during games, in between shifts. 

It’s relaxed, easy. Nothing like the rushed way they would go about it if they were in the bathroom of a hotel, or on practice mornings, jerking each other off with a couple of hurried kisses in between. It’s not even rushed the way it usually is when they find each other in the shower on nights where they have all the time in the world, desperate and loud and hot, even when the water runs cold around them.

Jack takes his time. He kisses Kent, takes his lip between his teeth and tugs, slides his tongue into Kent’s mouth and licks back, almost leisurely. Kent’s eyes are closed, even as he responds to Jack’s searching mouth, reaching up and around to wrap warm, wet fingers along the back of Jack’s neck, angling his head for Kent to lean up and fit their lips together better.

Eventually, Kent shifts, and turns to face Jack instead, pressing Jack back against the side of the tub, getting into his lap. It’s skin on skin, but it doesn’t induce the same sort of unintelligible desire that tends to consume them when they get their hands on each other after dark. It’s something more deep-seated, something that Jack thinks he’s always felt all along.

His limbs feel heavy and weighted in the still-warm water, but he places his hands over Kent’s waist, and holds him close while Kent runs his palms over Jack’s body. Down his chest, over his stomach. Kent presses their lips together, less of a kiss and more of a trade of breaths, their noses bumping once or twice, but it gets even better when Kent loosely fists their hard cocks together, moving his hand in gradual, deliberate strokes.

Jack moves his face away, mouths at Kent’s neck instead. He pulls his hands back from where they’d been resting on Kent’s hips, and wraps his own hand around Kent’s, the one that’s still jacking them both off, slow and conscious of the flush that’s creeping up Jack’s skin. Kent’s movements stutter when Jack fits his fingers into the spaces between Kent’s.

“Jack,” Kent murmurs, voice thick with something that sounds a little like love, and something in Jack’s chest tightens. “Jack, c’mon.”

It’s not long before Jack comes, and then he’s stroking Kent to completion too, wanting Kent to feel just as good, and then they’re sitting in water that’s gone a little past lukewarm and edging into cold now. Even so, Jack wipes Kent’s hair back from his forehead again, that little cowlick along his left ear pasted against his temple, and smiles. “I think you’ve made up for the bad pick-up lines, now.”

“Shh,” Kent says, looking sated and sleepier than before; nevertheless the smile on his face is less tired and more satisfied, “you’re harshing my afterglow.”

“Weirdo,” Jack tells him, and Kent lightly kicks at his ankle. “Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too. Time for that nap, now?”

“Yeah.” Kent yawns. “I wanna go skating later.” He tugs the plug out of the bottom of the tub, and water begins to swirl out with a _whoosh._ They stand, knees just a little unsteady, and Jack lets Kent lean on him while Kent turns the shower on. “Wanna take you to the outdoor rink and hold your hand,” Kent whispers, lips ghosting across Jack’s clavicle, “wanna kiss you on center ice and let everyone see the way you get all red when you get embarrassed.”

“I’m pretty sure everyone’s already seen that before,” Jack says, remembering the first time they’d kissed in public, just a chaste brush of lips at a Falconers’ team barbeque, but he’d gotten so flushed that even Marty had pointed it out from two tables away, making Kent snicker and kiss him again. “But, sure. We should.”

“Yeah?” Kent grins, pleased. “Get the Zamboni guy to carve out a giant heart on the ice, too. And get him to write, ‘I love your sweet, sweet thighs, Jack Zimmermann,’ inside it.”

“That went from 0 to 100 way too fast,” Jack says, but he’s still feeling warm at Kent’s words, even if he did destroy the romance by being completely ridiculous three seconds later. “I thought it was my ass you loved?”

“Oh, babe,” Kent says, “I love _everything_ about you.” And Jack knows it’s supposed to be teasing, the words, just a little quip in response, but the look in Kent’s eyes suggests otherwise.

Jack turns the shower off, and says, “You’re still making dinner, you know. No amount of flattery is getting you out of that.”

Kent’s laugh is bright. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://schadenfraudulent.tumblr.com/) (mostly hockey and motorsports).


End file.
